


Early Morning Light

by Mistress_Siana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:18:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistress_Siana/pseuds/Mistress_Siana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on the sherlockbbc_fic kinkmeme: Sherlock's complete and utter, sheet-wearing lack of shame and Molly's foot-in-mouth syndrome collide in her kitchen. Bonus for Molly saying 'you're beautiful.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early Morning Light

He's naked underneath, she observes, rather casually. It says a lot about the last twenty-odd hours of her life that Sherlock Holmes wearing only sheets in her kitchen leaves her relatively unfazed.   
  
'How does it go -  _Friends, Romans, countrymen...'_  
  
'Come again?'  
  
'I thought you look like you could be in a costume drama. Wearing a toga, that's all.'  
  
'Jokes, Molly. Not your strong suit.'  
  
'No. Of course not.'  
  
She sits down on the edge of a chair and doesn't know where to place her legs. He's making himself coffee in her kitchen without offering her any, and Molly thinks that maybe she should say something about that.   
  
She doesn't.   
  
He has the odd grace of someone who doesn't know how to do things carelessly. Like ordinary life has never managed to catch up on him, and making coffee in someone else's kitchen is unusual and requires attention. For a second, she wonders what it would be like to be one of those things, to be read and taken apart by him, and she feels a strange hollow sting somewhere inside her, right below her stomach.   
  
She knows, suddenly, that he caught her looking. She bites the corner of her lip, doesn't know what to say again, and spills out the first thing that comes to her mind.   
  
'You're beautiful. Has anyone ever told you?'  
  
He laughs.   
  
Molly thinks she'd like to disappear right now, please, but she somehow manages to hold his gaze. No point looking away, really. She means it, after all.   
  
'No,' he says, with something like amusement in his voice, 'as a matter of fact, you're the first.'   
  
'That's strange. Cause you are.' Still keeping eye contact. Doing quite well.   
  
'Remember to blink, Molly.'  
  
Damn.   
  
He rearranges the sheet, exposing his shoulders for a moment, and sits down on the opposite chair. Curious. Thinking. His coffee remains untouched beside the sink, and for some reason, it feels like a victory. Great. Competing with a cup of Nescafe now. Even with her history of awkwardness, that's bad.   
  
'You're in love with me. Why?'   
  
She's so completely thrown off guard, it doesn't even occur to her to deny it.   
  
'Does there have to be a reason?'  
  
'I should think so.'  
  
'That's not how it works.'  
  
He leans forward, bringing his fingertips together, and Molly fights a sudden impulse to back down.'  
  
'John is an adrenaline junkie and needs a war zone to function. Everyone else who keeps regular contact with me either needs me, owes me, or is related to me. They don't usually like me.  _You_  don't actually like me.'  
  
'That's not true.'  
  
'Oh, is it not?'   
  
'Well, you're hard. You're not, I mean, you're not easy. You make it difficult to like you, sometimes. I do anyway.'  
  
Oh God.   
  
'Why? I owe you hundreds of favours by now, and you never ask for anything in return. I don't understand.   
  
'Coffee would be nice, sometimes.'  
  
'Molly...'  
  
'I know. Don't. Please.'   
  
He rises to get his coffee, clutching the sheet to his waist. She doesn't know where to look and feels out of place in her own flat. He's got a gift, she thinks, a sort of presence that makes any room his own, no matter who's lived there or who's going to be there after he's gone. When he's in her living room, she doesn't know where to sit, or where to hang her jacket when his coat is there. It's too much, she thinks. He's too much.   
  
'I'm not John,' she says.   
  
'Astute observation, Molly.'  
  
It felt good to say it, though, possibly for the first time. Because she was watching John when he saw Sherlock jump, watched him scream and run and fall apart, and it broke her heart. Sherlock's disdain hurts, but so, it seems to her, just a little bit, does his affection.  
  
There's a strange gleam in his eyes, and Molly wonders if he read her mind.


End file.
